


La Vérité dans ses Yeux

by Vegan_Venom



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Enjolras, Canon Era, M/M, Minor Violence, Pining Grantaire, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vegan_Venom/pseuds/Vegan_Venom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras had never understood human passion beyond that directed at justice and revolution, had never looked upon a woman - or a man - and felt his blood boil with desire. But now, seeing the reaction he  has provoked in Grantaire, he feels a captivating fascination. Not desire for sex, precisely, which is surely what Grantaire is feeling, but a burning curiosity about what he could do to the man pressed against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Vérité dans ses Yeux

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work of fanfiction I have written in around 8 years, though I have never stopped being an avid reader. The high quality of works in this fandom (to which I am relatively new) has somehow not deterred me, but inspired me to pick up the pen again. I apologise for mistakes and am grateful for them to be pointed out, since I have no beta-reader.
> 
> I would also like to point out that asexuality is a broad term, which I feel can certainly be applied to the Enjolras here. I do not intend that his asexuality is the reason the story plays out like this, though it is an important part of his character. In my mind the story would end in the same way had Enjolras been sexual.

"And of course, upon getting word that a few dozen schoolboys have taken to the streets, waving banners and proclaiming their naïve dreams of revolution, the King shall run quivering in fear to hide away in the south. Perhaps he shall declare France a republic too, lest the terrifying students find reason to chase him down."

Enjolras does not even turn his head from its position facing his more loyal friends, so accustomed is he to the caustic, often sarcastic, interruptions from their resident drunkard. He lets out a deep breath through his nose, telling himself that he is capable of the necessary patience to ignore this provocation.

Seeing that he has failed to bait his leader into an argument, and after taking another loud gulp of his cheap wine, Grantaire continues: "Or perhaps he would look out at the revolutionaries gathered in front of the palace, and see the splendour and passion of he who leads them." Here Grantaire waves his arm in a drunkenly exaggerated manner in the direction of Enjolras, who is now glaring daggers at him. "And the King... and the King would be so in awe of his glory, that he would take his crown and place it upon our general's golden curls, and proclaim that..."

"Enough!"

At Enjolras' outburst, those in the Café Musain who had been deep in their own conversations, uninterested in the hundredth performance of Grantaire's drunken insults to the group, immediately quiet. All eyes turn to the two men who are now both standing facing one another, looking as though they may have drawn their swords if they were in an earlier century. A satisfied and slightly cruel smirk spreads over Grantaire's face, having now attracted the attention he craved. 

"My, you are practising already! How adept you are at giving orders to your lowly subjects, Your Majesty."

"Grantaire, I demand that you cease with this foolishness," Enjolras proclaims, his loud voice trying for a tone empty of anger but quite clearly failing. "You are fully aware that this group is nothing like a monarchy. Each man, even you", he says with obvious distaste, "has equal say in how we operate."

"And yet, you are the only one who rallies them with fiery speeches, who forces doubts from their heads with impossible dreams of change, who will lead them like a general or like a king to their willing deaths, and upon whose head the guilt shall fall when the blood of every man in this room lines the streets of Paris." Grantaire stumbles a little where he stands a moment after finishing his monologue, perhaps realising from the gasps and whispers of their friends that he might have gone too far this time. But Grantaire's smile merely widens, and he tilts his chin up, his eyes fixed on those of Enjolras in challenge.

Enjolras looks as though he is contemplating murder.

After a small eternity of heavy quiet, Enjolras breaks eye contact to regard his boots. He takes a breath. Then another.

"Grantaire, I would like a word with you outside, if you please", he manages to get out in some approximation of a calm voice.

So calm that a second of fear passes over Grantaire's face as he wonders if their leader has finally tired of his uselessness and has decided to put an end to him. A few decades ago, Enjolras' words might have been an invitation to a duel, but that has long been outlawed. A mercifully quick pistol shot to the head seems more likely, but Grantaire cannot imagine Enjolras taking the life of any man not in the way of the Revolution. Though perhaps now, Grantaire considers, he has become sufficiently annoying in Enjolras' regard to be considered its enemy.

Grantaire takes a deliberate swig of wine from his bottle and deposits it on the table in front of Joly. Walking forward on only slightly unsteady legs, and with a smile of half-false bravado on his face, he answers, "As you wish, Your Highness", and saunters out through the front door without a look behind him.

Enjolras clenches his fists at his sides and bites his lip to keep from a venomous retort in front of their friends, who are all watching with either worry or amusement. As he turns to follow Grantaire outside, Combeferre catches his arm.

"Forgive me for saying this, since I should as your friend trust that your morals would not tolerate it," his closest friend imparts in a low voice meant for only their ears. "But I must remind you that violence is not necessary in this situation. Grantaire is simply drunk, and..."

"Grantaire is always drunk!" Enjolras replies swiftly, with no small amount of frustration. More quietly: "But it was never my intention to use violence. I merely wish to speak with him alone, in the hope that some of his bluster will be diminished with no audience to encourage him.”

Satisfied, Combeferre releases his sleeve, and Enjolras descends the stairs of the Musain to finally emerge into the cool night air of the city. At first Grantaire is nowhere to be seen, and Enjolras considers that he may have run away as a coward, or else forgotten where he was going in his inebriated state and become distracted by the thought of what fun he could have elsewhere.

The sound of glass being kicked across cobblestones causes Enjolras to look towards his right, where Grantaire is lounging unsteadily against the brick of the corner of the alley between the Musain and the boulangerie. Grantaire sends him a heated smile - a challenge, Enjolras thinks - and disappears round the corner into the dark.

What calm he had managed to grasp after his brief conversation with Combeferre suddenly gives way to anger, and Enjolras is not consciously in control of his body until he finds that he is already in the alley, his right hand fisted in Grantaire's shirt as he pins the smaller man to the cold wall. Grantaire's mouth is open, looking shocked, a little scared, and somewhat impressed, as though he'd not thought Enjolras capable of such a display of anger. The stench of alcohol is rich on Grantaire's breath, and reminds Enjolras of the reason they are out here.

"Why do you waste yourself so, Grantaire? Why make yourself stupid with liquor every night? Why keep company with those you freely insult, and on whom you wish failure?" Enjolras' fury simmers in his voice, his lowered tone failing to conceal it.

In the barest light from a distant streetlamp, Enjolras sees Grantaire's surprised expression morph into the more familiar smirk. "Surely you must know... my King.”

This receives the desired reaction, and Grantaire is shoved harder against the wall, forced onto his toes where Enjolras is hoisting him up by his shirtfront. Grantaire gasps, his lips once again falling open, and his eyelids fluttering closed. Enjolras cannot bring himself to care that he might be causing this man pain.

“Winecask! What do you hope to gain, from your rambling provocations? Do you take pleasure in attacking my character?”

“Pleasure, indeed,” Grantaire mumbles, his drunkenness giving voice to a truth he had intended to keep hidden.

All at once, Enjolras becomes aware of three things.

First: that Grantaire’s eyes are once again open, but heavy-lidded, and are angled down, now that they are forced to be of a height, to stare at Enjolras’ mouth.

Second: that they are improperly close, Enjolras’ torso keeping Grantaire pinned to the wall more than the hand on his shirt now, the arm trapped between their chests.

And third: that the physical evidence of Grantaire’s pleasure is inarguably pressing into Enjolras’ thigh.

Enjolras’ first thought is that he should be disgusted, should move back immediately and tell Grantaire how like the drunkard it is to be reduced to base and vulgar desires.

But Enjolras does not move.

He is not as surprised at this discovery as he might have been had he not been warned by several of Les Amis that Grantaire’s obsession with him was likely of the Greek kind. At the time he had not quite believed it, and in any case cared nothing for such useless matters.

Enjolras had never understood human passion beyond that directed at justice and revolution, had never looked upon a woman - or a man - and felt his blood boil with desire. But now, seeing the reaction he has provoked in Grantaire, he feels a fascination. Not desire for sex, precisely, which is surely what Grantaire is feeling, but a burning curiosity about what he could do to the man pressed against him.

Enjolras experimentally pushes his hips forward a little, causing Grantaire to let out a groan, his head hitting the wall behind it and his arms coming up to grasp uselessly at Enjolras’ shoulders.

How extraordinary, that Enjolras has finally found a way to shut up the cynic!

“Enjolras!” Grantaire gasps, his eyes opening once again to reveal such depth of emotion - lust, helplessness and disbelief - that Enjolras cannot help but surge forward again to watch them close, an escape from their disconcerting intensity.

Enjolras brings the hand that was in Grantaire’s shirt down to palm at the front of his trousers, and Grantaire lets out a sharp moan, his hips pushing toward the contact as much as they are able and his back curving away from the wall. Enjolras, never having seen another person in such a state, is startled by this strong reaction, and by his own desire to provoke more like it.

Without thinking overmuch on what he is doing, Enjolras fumbles at fastenings and quickly gets his hand inside clothing to grasp Grantaire’s cock. At the contact of skin on skin, Grantaire lets out a string of obscenities interspersed with Enjolras’ name, bucking and squirming in a way that makes Enjolras feel drunk on the control he has here, on the pleasure he is at liberty to give.

It only takes a few dozen strokes before Grantaire is grasping at Enjolras’ shoulders hard enough to bruise, his head thrown back and his seed spilling in Enjolras’ hand, whose name he cries with no regard for the hour or the consequences should they be discovered.

Grantaire’s body goes limp and Enjolras uses his left arm to hold him up, while he wipes his soiled hand on the inside of Grantaire’s trousers. Grantaire’s eyes are closed again now, as though he is afraid to wake up from a particularly dirty and vivid dream, and his breath escapes his lips in short pants.

Finally Grantaire regards him, half with uncertainty and half with something which looks like hope, and Enjolras abruptly realises the enormity of his mistake.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says gently, his voice full of the adoration he had once disguised with venom, reaching up timidly, as though his hand might be slapped away, to caress the cheek of his leader.

Enjolras feels sick. How blind, how selfish he was to play with this man’s feelings, to use the love his friend felt for him to satisfy mere curiosity.

He stumbles back abruptly, looking resolutely at the ground so that he does not have to witness the brokenness he knows will now adorn Grantaire’s face.

“Goodnight, Grantaire,” he speaks quickly, as he turns to make his escape. “Take care on your way home”. 

As the sounds of rapid footsteps fade into the distance, Grantaire stays unmoving, slumped against the wall. As tears finally escape he wonders on the sweet pain of getting something so close to what one desires above all else, only to have it snatched from under one’s nose at the last moment.

It was a gift, Grantaire decides, though a painful one, like a gaily decorated arrow in his chest. 

He will be grateful for this brief touch from a god, and tomorrow he will return to worshipping him from afar.


End file.
